


Ordered Words Asunder Fly

by Arrested



Series: The Day-Dream [4]
Category: Ivanhoe, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anachronistic Social Attitudes, Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Healing Sex, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Middle Ages, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slavery, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrested/pseuds/Arrested
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to <i>In the Morning of the Times</i>. </p><p>A light in the dark will often blind us. Sometimes it takes time for our vision to clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordered Words Asunder Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Night/gifts).



> I've never written anything in Wamba’s POV before, despite how long I’ve been working on this story. A few weeks ago, I began to think about the transformation that happens within him over the course of ItMotT, the path by which he comes to love and accept Oscar. This piece is an exploration of that, in a completely different style and at a fraction of the length, since there was no need to retell that whole story.
> 
> I’m going to go ahead and say this one is for **Nightflower** , who was the first to express an interest in seeing the story from Wamba’s perspective. I can’t tell you how much your support and enjoyment of my odd little daydream have meant. Not only that, but you have frequently left comments that made me think about the characters and their actions in new ways that ultimately made the story better. I hope you enjoy this brief glimpse into the other side of the pairing.
> 
> This story is my original work. All rights are reserved.

_“Please.”_  
  
_His raw croak was met with a quiet laugh._  
  
_“What is it that you want, sweet boy?”_  
  
_“You, master,” he gasped. “Please.”_  
  
_He tugged against the soft cloth that bound his hands above him, longing for touch. His body was alight, laid out and exposed, helpless yet unafraid, for he knew his master was there, somewhere beside him in the dark._  
  
_“Are you mine, Wamba?” that deep voice growled in his ear, sending shivers down his spine._  
  
_“Yes, master.”_  
  
_“Then no hand but mine shall touch you again.”_  
  
_He shook his head, his whole being rejecting the very thought. “No, master. I’m yours.”_  
  
_“Say it again.”_  
  
_“Yours, master,” he swore, his body straining upward now, begging for relief. “I’m yours.”_

* * *

  
He woke with the confession on his lips. For one suspended moment, he was still in that place, still waiting for his master to grant him the mercy of his touch. Then the room came back to focus, and he remembered. The air was still, the bed cold, this bed that was his alone now. He turned his head to hide his eyes from the sight.  
  
Sleep was no refuge any longer. The night was an endless theater of relived hurts, more often than not. Still, it was preferable to this. The illusion of his master his memory conjured was worse than the nightmares, for at least those were improved by waking. Now, his body ached, waiting in vain for a touch that would never come. He was unable to fulfill that desire himself, had never been capable of it, so he let himself weep instead, very quietly, while his useless arousal cooled. Then he rose, and gathered the pieces of himself, and went to do his duty.  
  
Duty was all he had left now. Duty, and the certainty that he must not fail at it.

* * *

  
He had come to think of the tribunal as a play, like those in which he had performed as a child. Walking through those doors was stepping into a character and leaving himself behind. His robes were his costume, the dais his stage. If some days he could not find his own thoughts again afterward, that was only to be expected.  
  
He was not needed here. The magistrate was. So that was who he would become. No matter that he wanted nothing more than to go home. No matter that home as he longed for it was gone. They did not need him, moping about without purpose or cheer. Much better that he make himself of use here, for Wilfred, who had been immeasurably kind to him, who was owed his loyalty and his obedience.

* * *

  
Court was much the same.  
  
He attended because it was expected of him, because it was not fitting for a member of the king’s council to spend every evening secluded in private chambers, and because the king required him to be fit to offer insight on matters beyond those that arose in the tribunal. So he put a smile on his face, a jest on his lips, and made himself familiar with the nobles and their allegiances, their rivalries, their petty contests and their justified grievances. Most were eager to speak to a sympathetic ear, perhaps especially because he was believed to hold some sway with the king. So he drifted through that company, and quietly collected the information he needed, and did not dwell upon how numbing it all was.  
  
Until, quite suddenly, it was not.

* * *

  
Oscar was a revelation.  
  
In the midst of that throng of meticulously crafted masks, he was a brilliant burst of chaos, a bold weed among the carefully tended roses of the royal garden, unpolished and unapologetic. The boy’s defiance woke something in him, a feeling of kinship that ached for Oscar’s refusal to bow to power, despite the hopelessness of his situation, the fear that lay thinly veiled behind the fire in his eyes.  
  
It was unthinkable that such a bright spirit should be crushed, when it had survived whatever hardships had driven the boy to desperate acts, so he stepped out of his proper place, dared to challenge the king, and was amazed when his request was granted.

* * *

  
Oscar was less than grateful, but then, he had not expected him to be. The boy’s deliberate insolence was utterly charming, and he was startled to hear a laugh burst from his own throat. It was unspeakably sweet, to know that he could still feel such simple delight, but his amusement did nothing to calm Oscar, who was skittish and wary, so he thought it best to remove himself and let the boy eat and rest without the threat of his unfamiliar presence. He hoped a show of trust might allow Oscar to begin to trust him in turn.  
  
Besides which, he suspected the king would be waiting for him. He was correct.

* * *

  
“I don’t suppose you’d care to explain that particular bit of foolishness.”  
  
“Forgive me, your majesty,” he apologized at once. “I did not mean to challenge your authority.”  
  
“It is done now, though I do not know what you hoped to accomplish by it, as you can hardly expect me to pardon a thief who attempted to rob me in my own castle.”  
  
“Of course, sire,” he said, and dared to add, “but perhaps he might be granted a small degree of mercy, for his age if nothing else.”  
  
The king’s gaze was narrow. “You are too softhearted.”  
  
“Yes, sire.”  
  
“But I will allow it. This time.”  
  
“Thank you, sire.”  
  
“As for your punishment,” the king continued, “it will be your task to keep him out of trouble.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You wanted him,” the king said. “You shall keep him. For one year.”  
  
There was no possible response but one.  
  
“Yes, sire.”

* * *

  
That the price of mercy for Oscar should be the last safe haven afforded him did not surprise him. He was accustomed to forfeiting those things which were precious to him, and in this instance he had only himself to blame. He let his reservations go, and spent his energy instead on removing what traces of him littered the library, ceding it to Oscar to give him a sanctuary of his own.  
  
He spent much of those first few days seeking to divine what Oscar needed from him, to make his captivity bearable, and concluded at last that giving him an occupation would be the most efficient way to help his sentence pass more quickly. With luck, it would also give him something of value to take with him when he was granted his liberty anew. Unfortunately, finding someone to take the boy on was no simple undertaking. The steward had only disdain for his inquiry, the farrier more than enough apprentices to see to the menial labor, the stable master no desire for a troublemaker.  
  
So, failing to find anything more suitable, he decided to offer Oscar the only thing he could, in the form of a rudimentary education. It was less than he had planned, but he hoped it would be well received.  
  
Then Oscar ran.

* * *

  
“They caught him trying to lift the postern. Not especially clever, your thief.”  
  
“My apologies, sire. I should have kept a closer watch on him.”  
  
“Short of shackling him to your leg, I’m not certain you could have stopped him. After this incident, I am inclined to think he might be better off in the cells after all.”  
  
The thought of Oscar imprisoned, that fiery spirit withering day by day behind cold iron bars, was not something he could bear, was something he was, to his own surprise, prepared to fight to prevent.  
  
“Please, sire,” he entreated the king. “I will talk to him.”  
  
“Talking has done you no good thus far.”  
  
“I think he might be more of a mind to listen, after his misadventure.”  
  
He waited, expecting a reprimand for his impudence. It never came.  
  
“Very well. I will give you one more chance.”  
  
“Thank you, sire,” he gasped, and quickly offered a deep bow.  
  
“Only one,” the king said sternly.  
  
He took the warning to heart.

* * *

  
He was unprepared for the anger that flared to life within him at the sight of Oscar brutalized. He snapped at the guards, inching dangerously close to blatant disrespect, an unforgivable violation of his bounds. Any one of them could have executed him on the spot and been justified doing it. They ceded to his false authority instead, and retreated with a hasty apology, leaving him alone with Oscar and a conundrum.  
  
He did not know what would convince the boy to tolerate his presence, accept the lesser of two unpleasant options that lay before him, but they must come to some understanding if Oscar was to be spared harsher punishment.

* * *

  
The milk and honey was to calm his own nerves as much as Oscar’s. It relaxed the boy, allowed him to speak at last the reason for his flight, the many fears that assailed him.  
  
It was agony, to hear his master so maligned, to hear what he had been reduced to the basest of perversions. He had never had any inkling that he had destroyed the Saxon’s reputation so completely, that the proud man was known as a rapist of children now. His selfishness had sullied that which his master had held dear above all, his good name and his legacy.  
  
He held onto his tears until he had tended Oscar’s wounds and put him to bed, then went to his own bed and wept bitterly into the pillow, regretting his very existence.

* * *

  
Oscar took quickly to reading, as he had known he would. The boy was terrifically clever, if impatient. Once Oscar set his mind to something, his stubbornness gave him tremendous resilience, and he made rapid strides, his skill growing by the day. It was the same for his duties, many of which Oscar had simply taken on without being asked.  
  
Perhaps he should have been surprised by how quickly Oscar’s rebelliousness had turned to an overbearing sort of care, as though the boy had judged him deficient and resolved to see to matters himself. Instead, what surprised him was how natural it felt to let Oscar in, to give in to the playful urges that had been so long dormant, to tease and to banter.  
  
Together, they cultivated a rapport, and he began to hope that they might find a comfortable peace after all.

* * *

  
It was a profound relief to see Wilfred again, to attend upon him and speak with him, to be granted the comfort of his familiar touch after so long deprived, to be reminded of his place and that he was not forgotten, not wholly exiled from the life that once had been his. Wilfred insisted on informality, when they were alone, but he was comfortable defying his lord in this, comfortable confessing to his impulsive actions and letting Wilfred be the arbiter of his own internal dispute over whether his interference on Oscar’s behalf had been right or wrong.  
  
Wilfred gave him strength anew, the certainty he had been lacking, that his hasty act was not misguided, that something good might yet come of it after all.

* * *

  
As Oscar’s hostility and mistrust faded, much more unnerving expressions began to take their place.  
  
Determination, worry and, most frightening of all, admiration shone now in that sharp blue gaze. It was flattering to be the target of such devotion, tempting to let himself become addicted to it, but there was still too much that Oscar did not know of him, too many flaws that would steal that look away.  
  
With Wilfred came busy days, and the first betrayal of his weakness to Oscar. Sitting in the bath, pressing his thumb into the muscle of his forearm to still a persistent twitch and waiting for his shoulders to loosen, he reminded himself not to grow too accustomed to Oscar’s admiration. One moment was all that was needed to steal it away.

* * *

  
When Oscar woke him from his nightmare, he was certain that moment had come.  
  
He did not know why he told Oscar his secret, but that he was so weary of maintaining the pretense, that the specters that haunted his dreams had worn his defenses down to dust. It was a great weight lifted, to let one person know the truth, to stop pretending that he was more than a broken slave, a tool striving to fulfill his purpose. He thought telling Oscar would help the boy forget the person he imagined him to be, to see him for what he truly was.  
  
As always, Oscar defied his every expectation.

* * *

  
Once he learned the truth, Oscar’s determination seemed to redouble. The boy was eager and insistent, making every effort to impress him.  
  
It was stunning to find that feeling reflected in his own heart. When Oscar insisted on attending the tribunal, those brilliant eyes on him made him acutely aware of his every word and action, nervous as he had been during his very first days as magistrate, when he had not the faintest idea of what he was meant to be doing. Despite himself, he had fallen into the trap of Oscar’s devotion. He wanted Oscar to think highly of him, to look upon him with admiration. He did what he could to be worthy of it.  
  
Had he thought about it more carefully, he might have predicted the outcome.

* * *

  
He could not remember ever being angry enough to strike out at another. Such aggressions had been beaten out of him early, along with defiance, curiosity, impudence, any impulse that was counter to complete obedience to his master. Those others had returned, however, under Rotherwood’s more lenient discipline, under the license granted by his fool’s cap and bauble. Perhaps this anger had been lurking there as well, waiting for the moment to burst from the shadows.  
  
Seeing Oscar there, holding his most cherished mementos of his master as though he meant to destroy them, broke that final chain holding back his violence.  
  
So he struck.

* * *

  
He immediately realized the horror of what he had done. Oscar was a prisoner, but he was still a freeman, and to strike him a grave crime, to say nothing of the betrayal of the trust that had grown between them. He had promised Oscar safety while the boy was with him, and he could not think of a more deplorable way to have broken that promise.  
  
He confessed to Wilfred, prepared to accept his punishment, but Wilfred did not seem to understand the gravity of his crime, and did not censure him. What he had to say instead was just as devastating.

* * *

  
Oscar’s confession nearly broke his heart.  
  
He was such a fool, to have missed it. He knew, had known since childhood, the lustful feelings he engendered in men, though he had never understood what sin he committed to cause it. He had not imagined someone so young, so pure of spirit as Oscar could be corrupted by him as well.  
  
Part of him realized he was not being fair to Oscar. Oscar believed himself in love, and what was offered was much more than simple lust. He could not let it happen, could never become a monster of the like he had known. Even had he wanted to, his heart was not his own, nor his body, bound by promises made to his master.  
  
He told himself that Oscar was young, and the young loved quickly, and moved on with equal speed. Someone as clever as Oscar would certainly see soon enough how poor a choice he was, how very many ways he would fall short of all expectations. It was better that he make it clear now, rather than let Oscar waste one minute more than he must.

* * *

  
But Oscar was stubborn. Thwarted in his romantic ambitions, the boy set out to make himself indispensable in every other way, and was remarkably successful in his efforts. It was Oscar who discovered Reginald’s scheme, and Oscar whose presence assured that the spiteful noble did not kill him at once in the antechamber of the tribunal. It was Oscar who fought to protect his secret and who stood beside him, counseling prudence, when it seemed all was lost.  
  
It was Oscar whose earnest joy at their ultimate victory was so infectious. The unabashed boldness of the boy’s adoration was a warm light, a siren call that drew him in helplessly even as he tried to turn away, even as he began to doubt he ever could.

* * *

  
The tenderness within him grew slowly, delicately, like the gentle bloom of spring after a harsh winter. He found himself thinking of Oscar in odd moments when they were apart, a jest that had occurred to him suddenly or a curiosity that he wished to share making him turn, surprised to discover the space beside him empty where usually that radiant presence was to be found.  
  
While he had never wished before that he might have some greater status, had for years been content with what he had been given, he regretted now that he did not have means to provide for Oscar, to repay him for his boundless generosity of spirit.  
  
When Christmas came, he begged of Wilfred a small indulgence, and received more than he had asked. Oscar’s delight at the gift was sweeter than any delicacy.

* * *

  
Saying goodbye to Oscar was one of the most difficult moments of his life. He wavered, and almost faltered, almost asked him to stay, but he could not be so selfish as to ask for Oscar’s future, when he had already stolen a year of his life. He told himself that such pleasant companionship was more than he could have hoped for. And yet, hope he had, despite everything.  
  
Disappointment had ever been his most constant companion. It fell over him during a sleepless night spent staring into the fire, trying to remember how he had filled the silence, before Oscar.  
  
He had no friend to turn to, owing to the fiction that he lived. It had been unspeakably good to let Oscar close, but that was over now. He thought about going to Farren, who surely would not turn him away, and who might let him sit quietly at his hearth and be near someone. But Farren had his own family, had no need of an uninvited guest, so he did as he had always done. He wrapped his arms around his own body and tried to find comfort in them, swallowing against the tears that pushed up, spilling his grief.  
  
He had survived a year alone. He could do it again. He tried to believe it, though he could not make his limbs unbend. When dawn broke at last, he pushed up on shaking arms, and went to do what was required of him.

* * *

  
But Oscar returned.  
  
Unasked, unexpected, the boy turned his back on all the possibilities open to him, and walked back into his prison, demanding the place that he had decided was his. Looking at the stubborn set of Oscar’s jaw, the determination in dear features, he could not help but agree.  
  
When Oscar took his arm, it felt right, felt natural, and he realized that the battle was lost already. Loving Oscar was not a choice, but his inescapable fate, the inevitable outcome of allowing that first spark of fascination between them to catch flame.

* * *

  
The revelation came just as his body failed him, and his weakness was revealed in full.  
  
It was a crushing realization, that the emotion he bore toward Oscar was in itself what prevented him from confessing it. Love was a small thing, compared to what he would be asking Oscar to forfeit. He wanted no less than the best for Oscar, and he knew, with grim certainty, that the best was not something he could provide. He was not even a man, under the law.  
  
So he offered Oscar something of much greater worth instead, inviting him to take a post in the tribunal, to learn new skills that would take him far, serve him well. It was the best expression of his affection he could provide, caring enough to push Oscar away.

* * *

  
They settled into an easy domesticity, and his heart began to calm, and he dared to hope that peace might not have turned her back on him entirely. Then Oscar stole from Wilfred.  
  
Facing Alard, he knew disappointment once more, not that Oscar had fallen prey once more to his rash impulses, but that Oscar had found something worth such a risk, something more important to him than what they had. Even so, better him than Oscar. Always. So he opened his mouth, and took the blame.

* * *

  
He felt his heart shrivel as he heard the sentence. He had known what to expect, of course he had, but he had never overcome his fear of the whip, would rather a second hanging than to be bound helpless in chains again, stripped down to the dull thrall he was, beneath the pretense, and likely before the very men who stood guard in the tribunal.  
  
He did not know how he could endure it, and meet their eyes the next day in his guise of authority once more. He wished suddenly, fervently, for Wilfred, but he let it go, knowing that wishing was a path only to disappointment, to more pain. Oscar would be safe, and that was what mattered.

* * *

  
The king was kind, and spared him that humiliation.  
  
Instead, he found himself in the role of reluctant disciplinarian once more, forced to compel Oscar to confess what had driven him to put himself in mortal danger. He dreaded the answer, the moment when he must accept that Oscar's head and heart had turned, but then Oscar began to speak, and he realized that the truth was nothing like he had imagined. Oscar's mistake was only, as ever, an overabundance of compassion, a desire to care for those in need of aid.  
  
He wished it was not also such a great relief.

* * *

  
Avery. Of course it was Avery, whose face was one of those that returned over and over his dreams. There was nothing he wanted less than to face that man again, who had left him so battered he had been unable to hide his limp from Gurth for three whole days, been obliged to laugh off the swineherd’s concern with protestations of clumsiness. He had risked his master’s ire by making himself absent when Avery next returned, and had borne a harsh scolding for it, but his master had stopped short of having him punished. He would have taken the beating, over being in the same room as Avery again. He would take it now, given the chance.  
  
But his fear was not useful. It was not welcome. He swallowed it, and girded himself in the costume the king had given him, and went to do as he had been commanded.

* * *

  
Taking Oscar was a mistake, and a selfish one. He had wanted the familiarity of that staunch presence, to keep him centered, to bolster his courage, and also could not bring himself to disappoint Oscar when he wanted so badly to go along, to have an adventure of his own.  
  
Oscar was his strength, but he was also a weakness, and an obvious one, judging by how quickly Avery made him the focus of his barbs.  
  
Then came Devy, and he knew he was trapped.

* * *

  
_“No hand but mine shall touch you again.”_  
  
_“No, master.”_

* * *

  
He was not the strongest, the fastest, the cleverest of his master's servants, but he had taken some comfort in being perhaps the most obedient.  
  
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he deliberately disobeyed his master. That betrayal was all he could think of, even as he sought to put himself away, to ignore his body, and failed. Avery would not let him. So he thought of Oscar, and his own foolishness that had resulted in this.  
  
It was better that it was him. He was meaningless, compared to Oscar. Bright, mercurial Oscar. He could not bear to watch that light extinguished. Much better that the disgrace fell to him. There could not be that much further to fall, than the depths he had already known.  
  
If he was not even clever enough to prevent his master’s claim being taken, then he did not deserve it.

* * *

  
He had wished for death three times in his life. This came close.  
  
But it was not his to have, while his limbs still had the strength to carry him, his lord need of him.  
  
He focused on his duty, and did not let himself think of anything else. He recorded every horror he had seen, every injustice, the evidence that would convince the king to do what was needed. He did not write of that last night. Avery would be punished for his crimes against others. His own hurts were inconsequential, to be expected, the truth of his purpose as an outlet for his betters, a target for cruelty so that others might be spared. He would not forget again.

* * *

  
Wilfred’s anger was terrifying, for Wilfred was the only one who might have some awareness of the true gravity of his betrayal, the lie he had made of the promises that had passed his lips. He went prepared to beg forgiveness on his knees if necessary, to prove to Wilfred that he could still be trusted, could still be of use. But Wilfred’s anger was not for him. What awaited him there in Wilfred’s chamber was not chastisement, not dismissal, but compassion, all undeserved but desperately needed.  
  
He would never have asked, no matter how badly he wanted that claim, but Wilfred offered, assured him that the lady had allowed it. In the face of that kindness, he could not but accept.  
  
Even so, his body responded only grudgingly under Wilfred's hands, surrendering to his insistence more than any true pleasure. He was still broken.

* * *

  
Then Wilfred was gone, and with his lord the only measure of peace he had been able to regain. His nights were full of terrors, the days an exhausted struggle, and everything around him shrouded in the fog that numbed his spirit.  
  
Everything except Oscar.  
  
It was Oscar that drew him back to himself with irritated insistence, Oscar who fretted over him and badgered him, Oscar who refused to let him shutter his emotions away, though he was able to offer so little in return.

* * *

  
Winter. The gift. The kiss. That was when it dawned, the realization that rash, hotheaded Oscar was waiting for him. Oscar, who could hardly wait for his dinner most days, had forced himself to be patient, for him.  
  
There was guilt, that he had not succeeded in helping Oscar to find another path, but stronger than that, so much stronger, was the ache of desire to cling to what Oscar offered, to let himself have that comfort and that sweetness for his own. But he still had so little to offer, would not burden Oscar with his broken self, so he said nothing.

* * *

  
It was immensely gratifying, to see Avery humbled. The king gave him what he needed, handed him power over the man who had hurt him, had stolen from him something he could never reclaim.  
  
He pushed away the satisfaction, the desire for vengeance, forced himself to be the magistrate rather than the slave. He knew, when he met Oscar’s eyes, that he had done well, and had not felt so whole in longer than he could remember.

* * *

  
It happened suddenly, when Oscar trapped him, pressed him against the wall and held him there.  
  
There, along with the fear, was the spark. The flush of arousal that warmed his belly and made his skin light, that desire that had been absent since the day his master died. At last. Still, he could not let Oscar make that choice like this, could not risk letting Oscar close and only then discovering that he had been mistaken.  
  
So he pushed Oscar away, put him to bed, and spent the night staring at the patterns the fire cast on the ceiling, wondering what his master would have said. He looked at the ring on his finger, and wondered if it was really such a betrayal to allow himself to love another. Wilfred had given his blessing, and Wilfred was his lord now, unknowing heir to all of the promises made.  
  
He had already betrayed one of those, when he offered himself to Avery. What he contemplated now was so much worse, a true betrayal of the heart. That stubborn glimmer of hope had returned, that he might yet heal, fill in that empty space his master had left with something other than duty, than loneliness.

* * *

  
When Oscar asked again, he could not fight it any longer.  
  
He offered a silent apology, and surrendered.

* * *

  
Oscar was meltingly sweet, eager and hesitant by turns, and achingly beautiful with blue eyes wide and amazed, and he was amazed in turn at how easy it was, how effortless to give himself over to the pleasure of it, after so long trapped by grief. Oscar was clumsy in his nervousness, inexperienced but growing quickly confident. He was as absurdly clever, taking instantly to every challenge put before him, and this was no exception.  
  
It hurt, to have his heart so overflowing with love, but it was soothed by the relief of finding that love the same in kind but not in quality to that which he bore his master. This was not a desire to be kept, to be protected, but to protect in turn, to give Oscar every good thing in his power to provide, to make a life if Oscar would have him. He locked that thought up tight in his heart, did not dare to hope for such a miracle, only treasured what was given, while it was offered.  
  
When Oscar spilled inside him, it felt not like a claim but an offering, as Oscar had offered him so many other things. He took it, greedy for it, for all parts of this beautiful, stubborn boy who had fallen into his life and brought chaos with him, brought life back to the barren field of his heart.  
  
He did not know how he would give this up, when the day came.

**Author's Note:**

> And I too dream’d, until at last  
> Across my fancy, brooding warm,  
> The reflex of a legend past,  
> And loosely settled into form.  
> And would you have the thought I had,  
> And see the vision that I saw,  
> Then take the broidery-frame, and add  
> A crimson to the quaint Macaw,  
> And I will tell it. Turn your face,  
> Nor look with that too-earnest eye-  
> The rhymes are dazzled from their place,  
> And order'd words asunder fly.
> 
> The Day-Dream  
> by Lord Alfred Tennyson


End file.
